


Love Me Tinder, Love Me True

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, starring Bellamy Blake as the Mom Friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 18:13:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8220338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: Bellamy presses his lips together. “I don’t know, princess. Tinder? How safe is that going to be?”Clarke shrugs. “I don’t know. Ask the millions of people who use the thing on a daily basis, maybe?”  The one where Clarke decides she’s ready to start dating again, and Bellamy is stuck trying to figure out if there’s a difference between platonic, protective concern, and plain jealousy.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kacka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/gifts).



> Kacka's prompt, word for word:
> 
>  
> 
> **Essentially Bellamy is the friend Clarke texts pics of her tinder dates & their license plates and he doesn't want her to stop bc he's the Protective Friend but also he's pining and it's the w o r s t**
> 
>  
> 
> and naturally, because Kacka is brilliant and amazing, i got completely carried away with it.
> 
> enjoy! =)
> 
>  
> 
> (title from the Elvis Presley song)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that when an assortment of individuals come together to form a Friend Group, one amongst them will inevitably rise to become the Mom Friend.

 

This truth is so well fixed in the minds of the individuals that make up said Friend Group, that the Mom Friend is inevitably called upon to endure many an exasperating event, incident, or occurrence.

 

And Bellamy Blake?

 

Bellamy Blake _is_ the Mom Friend.

 

It’s not that Bellamy ever _asked_ to be the Mom Friend. It’s just that Jasper is too easily distracted to be a proper sounding board for _anything_ , Monty is too much of a worrywart for anyone to feel comfortable with burdening further, Raven is seemingly allergic to any and all discussion of human emotion, and the only helpful advice Miller has in his friendship arsenal is to stare blankly before uttering some variation of _“uh… wanna get a beer?”_

 

Clarke would probably be next in line, but the thing about Clarke is that she’s a bit _too_ single-minded. The sharpness and intensity of her focus is one of her greatest strengths as a person. But it also means that all Clarke ever wants to do is _solve_ people’s problems.

 

Which is a _good_ thing, of course — but sometimes, people don’t want to _be_ solved. They just want someone to _be_ there for them, someone to talk things out with and rant to and joke around with.

 

And, yeah, that’s not really Clarke’s thing.

 

Which puts Bellamy right back in the Mom Friend position.

 

Which is totally fine, of course. No trouble at all.

 

Yeah, okay, maybe some nights he spends a full hour and a half driving everybody back from the bar and making sure they all get up to their apartments in one piece.

 

And, sure, maybe he sits down once in a while and trawls through fifty food blogs, going cross-eyed in his struggle to find the perfect restaurant to celebrate Jasper’s birthday or Monty’s promotion.

 

And, whatever, maybe he always makes a mental note to pick up extra tubs of guacamole before showing up for game and movie nights, because he knows Miller and Raven will inevitably end up fighting when the dip runs out. (Seriously, those two basically _shovel_ the stuff into their mouths.)

 

But, well. If he’s being one hundred percent honest?

 

He maybe sort of doesn’t really _mind_ doing all that stuff. _Some_ one has to look out for everyone. Might as well be him.

 

All right, okay, fine. Maybe he even _likes_ it.

 

 _Some_ times.

 

Just, like, a little, tiny, _teensy_ bit.

 

All that stuff keeps his friends _happy_ , and _safe_. That’s what’s most important, right?

 

And then one day, all hell breaks loose.

 

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

“Before the first round of shots gets here, I have something to say.”

 

The entire table shuts up, all five of them turning to look at Clarke.

 

Bellamy frowns, unable to interpret her neutral expression. It’s not often that he’s incapable of reading her.

 

She straightens in her seat, doing that thing where she somehow manages to look _everyone_ in the eye at the same time. It’s a purely _Clarke_ talent — no one else has the skill.

 

“I’m going to start dating again.”

 

Everyone stares at her.

 

She raises a brow. “Whoa, guys, one at a time. I can barely handle this overwhelming outpouring of support.”

 

“Wait,” Miller says, shaking his head. “Why are you telling us this?”

 

When it comes to her private life, Clarke is usually the last person to be sharing things publicly with the group. She tells Bellamy or Raven the most important things, and the others find out about stuff eventually, but she rarely ever does these big announcements.

 

“I tell you guys things,” she says defensively, one hand curling around her beer mug.

 

“No, you don’t,” Raven says flatly, eyes narrowed. “You just wait until it trickles down to everybody else, and then—”

 

The brunette cuts herself off, dark brows shooting up in revelation. “Jasper found out, didn’t he.”

 

“ _No_ ,” Clarke says self-consciously, brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. “I just felt that it was time to—”

 

“ _She has a date tomorrow!_ ” Jasper bursts out, fingers drumming on the table excitedly.

 

Clarke sighs, a rush of air whooshing through her pursed lips. “Jasper found out.”

 

“ _And_ , I didn’t tell _anyone_ ,” Jasper adds triumphantly. “Not even Monty!”

 

“Well, technically, you _did_ just tell everyone,” Monty observes mildly. “Including Monty.”

 

Clarke shakes her head. “Honestly, I’m just surprised you haven’t spontaneously combusted by now. Good job anyhow, I guess.”

 

Bellamy frowns. “You have a date tomorrow? With who?”

 

“With _whom_ ,” Clarke corrects automatically, relaxing into her seat. “A guy named Kyle. He saw that we’ve got a mutual Facebook friend in Jasper. Turns out they work together.”

 

“Well, we’re not on the same project team,” Jasper says, gesturing unnecessarily grandly. “But yeah, I know the guy. Easygoing, laid-back, really funny.”

 

“So, like, everything you’re not,” Raven says to Clarke with a snort, prompting a loud bark of laughter from Miller and a polite snigger from Monty.

 

“Hang on,” Bellamy says, his brows drawn. “You met this guy on Facebook?”

 

Clarke shakes her head. “No, Tinder.”

 

Bellamy stares at her. “You’re on _Tinder_?”

 

She shrugs, nonchalant. “Gotta start somewhere.”

 

“Amen to _that_ ,” Raven announces, raising her beer glass for Clarke to clink hers to. “And now, we’re gonna celebrate Clarke getting back in the saddle with some _shots_!”

 

She sharply nudges her elbow into Miller’s arm. “Hey, you. Go get us some shots.”

 

As the entire table quickly gets sucked into the argument over whose responsibility it is to fetch the shots, Clarke looks over at Bellamy.

 

She laughs at his less than cheery expression, lightly knocking the backs of her knuckles to his shoulder.

 

“Don’t worry, I’m sure the date’s not going to be _that_ bad. I mean, yeah, the guy works with Jasper, but that’s not really a _hard_ limit.” She snorts dryly. “See? I can be funny too.”

 

Bellamy presses his lips together. “I don’t know, princess. Tinder? How safe is that going to be?”

 

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Ask the millions of people who use the thing on a daily basis, maybe?”

 

He doesn’t give in to her teasing smirk. “I’m serious, Clarke. You’re signing yourself up to spend a few hours with a _total stranger_. You don’t know _anything_ about this guy. He could be a complete dickhead. He could be a date rapist, or a serial killer.”

 

“Or worse,” she says gravely. “He could be a Belieber.”

 

He levels her with an unamused look.

 

She laughs, the sound bright and soothing to his nerves. “All right, all right. Look, I’ll make you a deal, okay? When I meet this guy tomorrow, the first thing I’ll do is text you a picture of him.”

 

“ _Really_ ,” he says doubtfully, one brow raised.

 

She nods. “Yes, _really_. So if I end up in the back of a black, unmarked van, you already have a photograph of the prime suspect.”

 

He sucks in a sharp breath, shaking his head in warning.

 

She grins, her pearly teeth flashing in the dim fluorescent lighting of the bar. “Plus, deterrence is key, right? He’ll be all confused when I stick my phone in his face for a photo, and when he asks what I’m doing, and I can just say _‘oh nothing much, just sending my very muscular, ripped friend a picture of you in case you’re thinking of making a patchwork suit out of my skin later tonight’_.”

 

He really wants to get mad at her for the skin suit comment, but he’s honestly still just having trouble processing past the words ‘very muscular’ and ‘ripped’.

 

“Fine,” he says eventually, when his brain starts working again. “But I want a picture of his license plate, too.”

 

“Got it,” she says cheerfully, tapping her beer glass to his. “Even if it’s not a black, unmarked van, right?”

 

“Very funny, princess,” he says dryly, the knot of concern clenching and unclenching slowly in his gut. “Absolutely hilarious.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

And, if he’s being honest, it _is_ pretty hilarious.

 

Clarke texts him a picture of her date the next day, seven-thirty on the dot.

 

It’s a little grainy, but still unexpectedly good quality for a surprise snap. The guy’s brows are pushed up high on his forehead, his mouth slightly open — almost like Clarke really _did_ just stick her phone in his face with no warning.

 

She even sends Bellamy a picture of her date’s _car_ , in addition to the license plate. It’s really just to make fun of the coincidental fact that the guy’s ride just happens to be black, but even as Bellamy smiles to himself, he can’t quite get the uneasiness squirming in the pit of his stomach to go away.

 

But then Clarke texts him again half an hour later, expressing concern over her date ordering his steak done _‘somewhere between rare and medium rare’_ , and he just _has_ to snort at the unamused tone of her message. Clarke _hates_ picky eaters.

 

His phone chimes again forty minutes later, and it’s Clarke bemoaning that even after all this time, not one soul has managed to come up a polite way to tell your date that thanks, but no, you don’t _want_ to share one dessert when you could just order two.

 

Close to nine-thirty, another message comes in. Kyle had suggested grabbing a drink at a bar she particularly hates for its exceedingly douchey fratboy clientele — which is basically the hardest limit Clarke will ever have when it comes to romance — so she’d politely requested that he take her home.

 

 _‘and he wasn’t even THAT funny,’_ the text right after that reads.

 

Bellamy exhales, the relief blooming in his chest and flooding throughout his entire system.

 

But it’s relief at hearing that she’s home safe and sound, of course.

 

Nothing else.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The next day, Raven sweeps into the diner like a hurricane of dark hair and denim jeans, plopping down at their booth beside Clarke.

 

“Details,” she demands with no preamble.

 

Bellamy casts a look of fond exasperation at her. “Can’t we at _least_ order first, Reyes?”

 

“No,” she answers shortly, deliberately turning away from him to look at Clarke. “Date. Deets. Spill.”

 

Clarke shrugs. “It was alright. The crème brûlée was better than the company, though, so I don’t think there’s going to be a second date.”

 

“Damn it,” Raven says, tossing her ponytail over one shoulder. “Well, maybe it’ll go better with this Niylah chick.”

 

“Here’s hoping,” Clarke agrees lightly.

 

Bellamy does a double take.

 

“Wait,” he says, brows snapping together. “Niylah who?”

 

“Niylah _whom_ ,” Clarke says, before dissolving into a snigger, one thumb jabbed towards herself. “See? Funny.”

 

“Jesus Christ,” Raven mutters, shaking her head. “No _wonder_ you’re single. She got matched with some girl named Niylah yesterday,” she says to Bellamy, pointedly ignoring Clarke’s insulted _‘hey!’_

 

“At least, I _think_ it’s pronounced ‘Nai-luh’,” Clarke says, raising a hand to catch Miller’s attention when he walks into the diner. “Maybe it’s ‘ _Nee_ -luh’.” She frowns, nose scrunching. “‘ _New_ -luh’?”

 

“Maybe for your first date, you should take her to a Starbucks,” Raven says sardonically, thrusting a hand into the air to wave down a waitress.

 

“Where’re Tweedledee and Tweedledum?” Miller asks, sliding into the bench beside Bellamy.

 

“Sleeping in,” Clarke says brightly, before they all turn their attention to the waitress that appears at their table.

 

 

 

It’s only when they’re spilling out onto the street after brunch that Clarke sidles over to Bellamy, with a bright grin and a nudge of her elbow.

 

“Quit _worrying_ about it,” she says.

 

He shoves his hands into his jacket pocket. “I’m not.”

 

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, and you’re not _mad_ , just _disappointed_.”

 

“For your information, princess,” he says with a sniff, “I am neither mad _nor_ disappointed.”

 

She reaches up, index finger poking playfully at his jaw. “Then stop doing that thing with your face.”

 

He shrugs her off lightly, lips pursed. “I’m not doing anything. This is my face.”

 

She laughs, hand returning to prod at the hollow just under his cheeks. “Tell that to the worry tic jumping in your jaw.”

 

He shakes his head, catching her hand in his to pull it gently away from his face. “I don’t _have_ a worry tic.”

 

She grins at him, all fond affection as she leans into his side. “Yeah, and Miller doesn’t have a snarky streak. Look, it’s _fine_ , okay? I’ll do that thing with the pictures again, and then we can all stop thinking I’m going to get kidnapped and smuggled into some Third World country to be part of some genocidal dictator’s extensive harem.”

 

“Ha, ha,” he says flatly, his hand squeezing hers reflexively when she turns her wrist to settle more comfortably in his grip. He exhales, the familiar sensation of clenching and unclenching returning to his chest. “Yeah, all right. Don’t forget, okay?”

 

“I won’t, Bellamy,” she says reassuringly, her free hand coming up to rub comfortingly at his forearm. “Don’t worry.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

But it’s a hell of a lot easier said than done.

 

Worrying is kind of Bellamy’s _thing_. (See above section on the Mom Friend.)

 

The point is, he can’t just _turn it off_ whenever he wants to.

 

Especially not when it comes to Clarke.

 

It’s not that he doesn’t think she can take care of herself. If anything, she’s about ten times better at standing up for herself than he is when it comes to defending her honour. Yeah, he’s threatened to sock a few overly handsy guys in the face — but she’s the one who’s _actually_ given out black eyes. So, yeah, _there_.

 

It’s just that — well, to begin with, he already spends much more time thinking about Clarke than any of their other friends. He can’t help but wonder what she’s up to all the time, and miss her like crazy whenever they’re apart for more than a day or two.

 

On this particular subject, Raven and Monty mostly keep their thoughts to themselves. (Mostly because they know that he already knows what their thoughts on this particular subject _are_.) But that doesn’t stop Jasper and Miller from repeatedly pointing out that with the amount of time they spend at each other’s apartments, they’d both be saving a fortune in rent if they just moved in together.

 

But as much as he lets himself indulge in Clarke’s friendship, he knows himself well enough to understand that he needs a strong, clearly drawn line _some_ where.

 

He can handle all the late nights on each other’s couches snacking their way through TV and movie marathons, but he definitely can’t handle waking up every morning to sleepy, bedhead Clarke puttering around the kitchen making coffee.

 

He can deal with helping her wash up after dinner whenever he’s over at her place, but he definitely can’t deal with _making_ dinner every single night with her — talking over what they both feel like eating every evening, going grocery shopping together every weekend so they can stock up on his favourite cereal and her favourite granola bars.

 

Yeah, he knows himself well enough. He knows his lines.

 

 

 

But come Friday night, she texts him a picture of her date, and his heart somehow manages to soar and sink at the same time.

 

Whoever Niylah is, she’s _hot_. Even in a photo that was clearly taken candidly, which, just, okay, _unfair_.

 

They’re going out for drinks, so neither of them have opted to drive. All the same, Clarke sends him a screenshot of her Uber request confirmation, with the driver’s profile picture and license plate information on it. It’s stupid, and cheeky — but it makes him smile.

 

“What’s up with you?” Raven asks, prodding him with a socked foot. The rest of the group sans Clarke is sprawled out all over Miller’s living room, alternating between Call of Duty and Mario Kart.

 

“What do you mean what’s up with me?” he grunts, tucking his phone away.

 

Raven levels a contemplative stare at him. “You look like someone just gave you a puppy,” she announces after a long beat. “But also like you just found out that the puppy has, like, a week to live.”

 

Bellamy raises a brow at her. “That is a _very_ concerningly specific analogy.”

 

She grins. “I like to get my message across on the first try. Come on, what’s making you do the nostril thing?”

 

He starts, head whipping round to look at her. “What nostril thing?”

 

“That nostril flare thing you do,” she says, gesturing vaguely at him. “It’s part of your worry face.”

 

“I don’t _have_ a worry face,” he retorts, but it’s half-hearted at best.

 

Raven scoffs. “Yeah, and Jasper doesn’t ever get over-excited over anything, ever.” She cocks her head, studying him for a few silent moments. “Clarke will be fine, dude. This is _good_ for her.”

 

“Yeah, I know, I know,” he mutters, raking a hand through his hair.

 

Raven shrugs, turning back to the TV. “If you ask me, this is good for you, too.”

 

His head snaps up, brows snapping together in a confused frown. “Wha—”

 

But they’re cut off by loud yells from the other three, Jasper jumping to his feet to do a victory dance as his kart just narrowly beats out the other two.

 

Bellamy licks his lips uncertainly, turning towards Raven with a million questions on the tip of his tongue — but she’s already off the couch, laughing good-naturedly as she holds her hand out for someone to hand her a controller.

 

 

 

Hours later, he lies awake in bed, staring at the last few messages from Clarke.

 

 

 

> _niylah’s great. actually, i think you’d_
> 
> _like her,_ _haha. you’re pretty similar._
> 
>  
> 
> _but yeah… don’t think another_
> 
> _date’s in the cards for us._
> 
>  
> 
> _anyway, i’m home in one piece with all_
> 
> _of my skin still on my body, so keep_
> 
> _the the k9 unit on the leash. goodnight_

 

 

He blows out a deep breath, clicking his phone off. Tossing it onto his nightstand, he pulls the covers up and closes his eyes, trying to fall asleep with Raven’s words still turning over and over in his mind.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Clarke goes on three more dates over the next week and a half.

 

She starts off each one by texting him a picture of the guy or girl, followed by a photo of their license plate or a screenshot of her Uber confirmation if they’re not driving.

 

He tries to keep his replies short, limiting himself to just _acknowledging_ her messages instead of trying to continue the conversation.

 

But he clearly doesn’t know how to limit himself with Clarke, because she somehow _always_ finds something to text him back about — wondering if her date’s too tall for her ( _‘i mean at some point it just gets plain inconvenient, no?’_ ), asking if she should duck out on the girl who orders champagne with her pasta instead of wine ( _‘champagne isn’t a FIRST DATE drink jfc shoving breadsticks in my purse’_ ), sending him a photo of the mushroom risotto her next date orders ( _‘we’re coming here next time. YOU WILL LOVE THIS’_ ).

 

Every time his phone chimes with a new message from Clarke, he scrambles to check it, the knot of worry clenching and unclenching in his gut as he devours every word, his nose inches from his screen. It’s so fucking _stupid_ of him, but his heart lifts with every text from her.

 

It almost makes him feel like maybe, just _maybe_ she can’t stop thinking of him either — even when she’s supposed to be out on a date with someone else.

 

But then he remembers that she’s just doing it so he’ll stop worrying about her, and the knot swells in his chest, compounded by guilt.

 

He feels like he’s become a character in an Austen novel, just sitting around going over all the things he’s said or done that seem even _remotely_ dumb, frowning at himself in hindsight and wanting to sigh at his own stupidity basically all the time.

 

Being the Mom Friend _sucks_ sometimes. Why hasn’t anyone ever told him?

 

Probably because part of being a good Mom Friend entails being _happy_ and _supportive_ for one’s best friend finally fully regaining her sense of self after a series of bad break-ups.

 

Which he _is_ , of course.

 

But he’s also pretty sure that the whole happy-supportive thing isn’t supposed to include wallowing in a pit of jealousy and despair over said best friend actually working up the nerve to put herself back out there.

 

Which he _is_. Most agonisingly.

 

So he guesses that means he probably just sucks at being the Mom Friend.

 

… Great. _Now_ he feels better.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

Clarke’s sixth date is with some guy named Roan.

 

She texts him a picture, as usual, and Bellamy instantly wants to punch something when he sees how fucking _hot_ the guy is. _Seriously_. The one grainy, candid shot Clarke sends over makes even Bellamy consider downloading Tinder.

 

The man drives a sleek, silver Jaguar — definitely _several_ times more expensive than Bellamy’s beat up second-hand Ford. He even has a _custom license plate_ , which, okay, that’s just plain _excessive_.

 

(It’s ‘ROYLS12’, a reference to the pro hockey team the guy owns. Oh, yeah — he fucking _owns_ a pro hockey team. Because of course.)

 

Clarke keeps up a pretty steady stream of texts all throughout dinner, making snide cracks on the fanciness of the restaurant Roan brings her to, the posh accents all the waiters use that make her want to roll her eyes so far back all she sees is the inside of her skull, the fact that the bathroom had an _attendant_ who offered her a _mint_.

 

He feels pretty good about this one. It definitely doesn’t _sound_ like Clarke’s going to want to go out with this Roan guy again anytime soon.

 

But then she drops into radio silence somewhere around nine o’clock, and he can’t help but get antsier with every minute that passes.

 

He’s not that naïve. He knows she’s exchanged kisses with a few of the people she’s gone out with, probably even made out with one or two. That’s what happens on dates.

 

But she hasn’t ever gone home with any of them, or invited any of them back to her place.

 

In fact, her dates are usually… _short_. She’s almost always home by nine-thirty, with a brief recap on the date and a breezy musing on how _‘yeah he/she’s cool but nah’_.

 

The clock strikes nine-thirty.

 

No message from Clarke.

 

He flicks on the first thing that comes up on Netflix’s ‘Documentaries’ category, and settles back into his couch with his phone in one hand, and spends the next thirty minutes _not_ watching it.

 

Instead, he jiggles his right knee restlessly, switching over to his left whenever a full minute ticks by on his phone display, and back over to his right whenever another full minute passes by.

 

It’s nearly eleven by the time his phone buzzes.

 

He jerks out of his fitful doze, grasping the device with both hands to bring the screen closer to his sleep-glazed eyes. 

 

 

> _i’m home. you’re probably asleep by now,_
> 
> _though. (at least, you SHOULD be.)_

He scrambles to hit ‘Reply’.

 

 

> **I will be. Soon. How was the date?**

He waits, his gaze roving anxiously over the three blinking dots that indicate her typing. 

 

 

> _not bad, actually. i kind of like roan. but_
> 
> _he’s not really my type and tbh, i don’t think_
> 
> _i’m his, either. maybe we’ll be friends instead._

He blinks, but then the typing dots pop up again.

 

 

> _‘lmao who am i kidding. FRIENDS. pfft._
> 
>  
> 
> _(see??? FUNNY.)_
> 
>  
> 
> _hahaha. anyway we should both_
> 
> _get some sleep._ _goodnight, bellamy._

 

His thumbs hover over the screen, but his mind is drawing a complete blank. Truthfully, he’s having trouble processing her messages. So she _enjoyed_ the date, and she _likes_ the guy… but she’s _not_ going to see him again?

 

Finally, he closes the messaging app, turning his phone display off with a reluctant click.

 

Whatever it is, it’s probably none of his business.

 

(And that realisation _shouldn’t_ make his chest clang with a hollow ache.)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Pear or apple?”

 

He wrinkles his nose. “Don’t you have any _regular_ beer, princess?”

 

He hears the slam of the refrigerator door, and the sound of footsteps padding back into the living room.

 

“Here,” Clarke says, handing him a freshly opened bottle of apple flavoured cider. “Don’t give me that face. I saw you sneaking a third round of the stuff at game night last month.”

 

“I like _beer_ ,” he says, right before bringing the bottle to his lips for a large swig of cider.

 

Clarke rolls her eyes, plopping back down onto the couch with her own bottle of cider. “Look at you, breaking down toxic masculinity tropes.”

 

He shrugs, raising the bottle. “Actions speak louder than words, princess.”

 

She sniggers, clinking her bottle to his comfortably.

 

It’s silly, but he feels the need to hide his grin from her under the guise of taking another healthy swig of cider. It’s just that, _God_ , he’s _really_ missed her. When she’d asked him to come over to hang out for the afternoon, he’d practically tripped over his own limbs in his haste to get dressed — _twice_.

 

They’re three episodes of _Angie Tribeca_ in when Clarke picks up her phone, frowning with concentration at the screen.

 

He hits pause, glancing sideways at her. “Everything okay?”

 

She waves her free hand. “Yeah, Raven just wants to borrow my car for a few hours.”

 

He pushes himself upright on the couch. “Want me to head down and give her your keys or something?”

 

She shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. She still has my spare set from the last time she borrowed it.” She looks up at him, bottom lip caught under her teeth. “But that means I need to ask you for a ride later on.”

 

 _… Oh_.

 

He deflates slightly, letting his gaze slide sideways as he reaches for his second, half finished bottle of cider. “Oh, yeah. You have a date tonight, don’t you?”

 

“Yeah,” she says, nodding firmly. “Can I— I don’t know, are you cool to give me a ride? I can just get an Uber if it’s—”

 

“No problem,” he says, shaking his head nonchalantly. At least, he’s _aiming_ for nonchalance. As for whether he’s actually _achieving_ it, he has no idea. “Yeah, I can give you a lift wherever.”

 

“Great, thanks,” she says, thumbs tapping away at her screen. She clicks her phone off, grinning brightly as she reaches out to curl her fingers around his forearm, squeezing affectionately. “You’re the best. But then again, that’s nothing new.”

 

“Yeah, not when my only real competition is a snarky ass mechanic who does nothing but mouth off and borrow your car every other day,” he grumbles, but the corners of his lips are already tugging upward in a soft smile.

 

He shakes his head, trying not to let his thoughts wander too far off the track at the mere sight of her just _laughing_ , head thrown back and face all lit up. Clearing his throat, he points the remote at the television. “Come on, princess, one more episode. For a spoof show, I’m getting weirdly invested in this conspiracy theory plotline.”

 

“Of course you are,” Clarke says, grinning as she settles back in beside him, her shoulder pressed snugly to his. “Okay, one more.”

 

 

 

One hour later, he’s alone on Clarke’s couch, channel-surfing aimlessly while she gets ready for her date.

 

He lands on a rerun of _Project Runway_ , turning the volume up a little so he can hear Tim Gunn criticise a contestant’s horrendous attempt to merge plaid with pinstripes.

 

He makes a _‘tsk’_ sound, fingers drumming on the back of the remote. “Bad idea, my guy,” he mutters out loud, shaking his head in disapproval. “And that’s coming from _me_.”

 

“That bad, huh?” Clarke’s voice says from behind him.

 

He hums, glancing up as she emerges from the hallway. “Trust me, princess, you _really_ don’t want to— holy shit.”

 

He gapes.

 

That’s it, really.

 

That’s all he can _do_ at the sight of Clarke in a deep blue wrap dress, the low cut of the neckline dipping enticingly into the valley of her generous cleavage, her eyes shining an even brighter blue through her soft, smokey makeup, framed by a head of perfectly tousled, loose blonde curls.

 

She cocks her head, one hand coming up to brush a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “That a good _‘holy shit’_ , or a _‘holy shit you look terrible go change_ ’ type of thing?”

 

He stares at her, blinking hard twice before finally remembering to snap his jaw shut. “The— the first one,” he manages to say, when his brain finally catches up to him. “ _Definitely_ the first one.”

 

She smiles then, wide and brilliant. “Good. You ready to go?”

 

 

 

“Oh, _fuck_.”

 

Bellamy glances over at her, brows drawing together sharply. “Fuck what? What’s happened?”

 

In the passenger seat, Clarke frowns, bringing her phone up so it’s right in front of her eyes, her face reflected in the front-facing camera. “I think I just smudged my mascara.”

 

He barks out a relieved laugh, turning to focus on the road. “ _Jesus_ , princess. Maybe don’t do that while I’m driving?”

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Clarke says, her voice lilting with laughter. “That last yawn just really snuck up on me.”

 

He snorts. “Yeah, can tell you’re _really_ excited for this date.”

 

She hums. “What can I say? Got a good feeling about this one.”

 

Before his heart even has the time to begin its despondent descent into his stomach, a bright flash goes off in the car.

 

“What the—” He blinks, whipping his head round to look at Clarke, hiding her grin behind her phone. “Did you just take a photo of me?”

 

“Maybe,” she says, shoulders trembling with barely contained amusement.

 

“What the hell for?” he asks, but it’s mostly surprise instead of genuine irritation.

 

She rolls her eyes, bringing her phone back up to her face. “For the _aesthetic_ , Bellamy.”

 

“I’m _driving_ ,” he mutters, but the corners of his lips are already tugging upward. “That’s not an _aesthetic_.”

 

At least, he doesn’t _think_ so? To be completely honest, he doesn’t completely understand the word yet. Not the way the kids are using it nowadays, at least.

 

He’s just about to ask Clarke to clarify it for him when she makes a loud ‘tsk’ sound, frowning at her phone in apparent dismay.

 

“Oh. _Fuck_.”

 

He glances over briefly before coming to a stop at a red light. “Wait, is that a real _‘oh fuck’_ , or a _‘oh fuck now my lip gloss is smudged’_ type of thing?”

 

Clarke shifts in her seat. “It’s more of an _‘oh fuck, we’re two minutes away from the restaurant and my date just cancelled last minute’_.”

 

Bellamy’s fingers immediately cease their idle drumming on the steering wheel.

 

“Oh,” he says slowly. “Fuck.”

 

He doesn’t look at Clarke. Mostly because he doesn’t really know what to do with his _face_.

 

He’s not _happy_ about her date bailing on her at the last second, of course. That’s _terrible_.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her tapping away on her screen, brows furrowed in concentration. After a few seconds, she sighs, letting the phone drop into her lap.

 

“God _damn_ it,” she says. “I really, _really_ wanted to try this place out.”

 

He nods vaguely in response, staring unseeingly at the road ahead. “Yeah. Bummer.” He clears his throat, blinking away the haze suddenly clouding up his vision. “So, uh, you wanna just head home, or—”

 

Clarke scoffs. “Fuck that. Let’s go try it out.”

 

His gaze snaps over to her. “Huh?”

 

She shrugs, the thin strap of her dress shifting on her bare shoulder. “We’re literally _just_ around the corner from the restaurant, Bellamy. Doesn’t make much sense to turn round and go all the way home now, does it?”

 

He opens and closes his mouth. “But— I’m not _dressed_ or anything.”

 

She snorts. “You’re a guy. A T-shirt and jeans _is_ dressed, for you. Come _on_ , let’s just check it out.”

 

He exhales, grinning helplessly at her raised brow. “Yeah, okay. Let’s check it out.”

 

 

 

Dinner is at this new gourmet pizza place, the kind where you can choose an existing menu item or create your own entirely from scratch.

 

At first, it _sounds_ like a pretty basic concept — but Bellamy quickly finds out that it’s really a lot more extravagant than that. They’ve got tablecloths and proper wineglasses, the waiters are all dressed in smartly starched white collared shirts, and, yeah, okay, there are no attendants in the bathrooms, but they’ve got _six different kinds of mushroom_ to choose from.

 

Clarke instantly suggests that they create pizzas for each other, practically bouncing in her seat with excitement.

 

“Because I’m clearly better at choosing what you like than you are,” she says breezily as she glances over the menu.

 

He sniggers. “Okay, princess, you’re on. Best pizza wins.”

 

He thinks he’s pretty clever with what he creates for her — all her favourite things, of course, including kalamata olives, portobello mushroom, and some special sort of chilli he can never remember how to pronounce.

 

But then she comes up with some concoction combining melted camembert, tender strips of smokey barbeque-sauce slathered chicken and cranberry compote, and it’s quite reasonable to say that he dies and goes straight to heaven on the very first bite.

 

“Fuck me,” he groans, his eyes sliding shut as the flavours combine in his mouth. “Oh, Christ— _shit_ , that’s good.”

 

Clarke grins, reaching across the table to pluck a thin slice off his plate. “I win.”

 

He waves one hand in careless acknowledgement, the other too busy with gathering up more pizza to stuff in his mouth.

 

They have way too much fun debating over the desserts. She wants to be _adventurous_ and go for some green tea panna cotta dish, he’s adamant on getting the molten lava cake, but then she also wants to try their red velvet cheesecake, and he doesn’t mind giving their tiramisu a taste either.

 

After a good ten minutes of careful bickering, they settle on the lava cake and the panna cotta — only after she makes him promise that if she hates it, she can have half his lava cake instead.

 

Both desserts turn out to be really fucking _delicious_ , so they end up splitting them evenly down the middle. They’re both flushed and giggling by the end, spoons clinking together loudly as they fight to get at the last couple of bites.

 

 

 

“Want to come up for a bit?”

 

Bellamy completes the turn to bring them onto Clarke’s street, glancing over at her. “You sure? I mean, hey, don’t want to keep you up or anything if you’re just gonna _yawn_ the whole way through.”

 

She rolls her eyes, delivering a light smack to his shoulder with the back of her hand. “Let me _live_ already. And yeah, sure. We could crack open some wine or something — we only had one glass each at the restaurant, anyway.”

 

He grins, distracted with looking out for a parking spot in front of her building. “Yeah, okay. Why not?”

 

 

 

She kicks off her shoes the second they get in the door, and leaves him on the couch while she heads to her bedroom to change out of her dress.

 

He collapses onto the couch, the smile lingering on his lips. He considers flipping the TV on while he waits, but he kind of just wants to _bask_ right now. He thought he’d only have a couple measly hours or so to hang with Clarke today, but he just got to spend all afternoon with her, looking all lazy and dishevelled and cute as _fuck_ in sweats. And _then_ , he _also_ got to spend all evening with her, looking all gorgeous and beautiful and hot as _fuck_ in that _dress_.

 

So, yeah, he’s ridiculous.

 

But, fuck, he’s _happy_.

 

His phone buzzes violently in his pocket — the first time it’s gone off the entire day.

 

He frowns, pushing up on one elbow so he can dig it out of his pocket.

 

He squints at the screen.

 

The notification just reads _Clarke sent you 2 images._

 

He opens his mouth, turning to look down the hallway — but she’s still in her bedroom, the door closed.

 

Frowning, he taps on the alert to open the messages.

 

The first picture is the one of him driving, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gearstick, eyes all crinkled up as he grins out at the road.

 

The second is _really_ blurry — but it’s definitely his beat up old Ford, the license plate just about distinguishable on the left of the photo. It’s still light out in the photo, so Clarke must have snuck her phone out and snapped it when they were walking towards his car on the way to dinner.

 

His phone vibrates urgently, and he exits out of the photo to look at the incoming message.

  

 

 

> _i’m home. this one wasn’t too bad. he was_
> 
> _a bit of a nerd, tbh. couldn’t shut him up_
> 
> _when it came to Homer. but whatever, i kind_
> 
> _of liked it. plus, he’s cute and way hot._

 

 

He stares at his phone.

 

He reads the message again, barely letting himself blink.

 

He reads it a third time, and suddenly realises he’s stopped breathing sometime in the last thirty seconds.

 

Taking a deep breath, he pulls up the text box to reply.

 

 

> **Is he, now?**

 

Never in Bellamy’s life has he ever felt this kind of overwhelming, simultaneous thankfulness and resentment towards anything as he does now towards Apple for coming up with those three typing dots. 

 

 

> _yeah. only thing is, he kinda sucks_
> 
> _at reading signals. didn’t even_
> 
> _go in for a goodnight kiss._

 

 

His breath hitches in his throat, and he briefly suspects that he goes deaf in his left ear for, like, a full three seconds. 

 

 

> **Poor asshole. Maybe you should**
> 
> **give him another chance.**

  

Her reply takes barely five seconds to appear on his screen — but it’s easily the longest five seconds of his _life_. 

 

 

> _don’t worry. i plan to._

  

He swallows.

 

And then he looks up as Clarke steps into the living room, still wearing her blue dress and a soft smile.

 

Slowly, he gets up from the couch.

 

“Hey,” he croaks raggedly.

 

“Hey,” she says with a small, cautious laugh, one hand brushing her hair out of her face. “So, uh — I promise not to yawn if you—”

 

But he’s already striding towards her, both hands going around her face as his lips descend on hers.

 

She instantly returns the pressure with her own, her hands fisting into his T-shirt as she pulls him against her, straining up on her toes to match his height.

 

They’re both panting by the time they break apart, his arms tight around her waist and her fingers tangled into his hair.

 

“So, uh,” he says against her lips, pulling her impossibly closer against his body, “I know you’re not supposed to say this on the first date, but I love you.”

 

Clarke laughs breathlessly, her arms tightening around his neck. “Yeah, well, you’re not supposed to have sex on the first date either, but—” she nips hotly at his jaw, “looks like we both suck at following the rules.”

 

“Yep,” he manages, voice strained as her tongue laves over his pulse point. “Yeah, fuck rules.”

 

Her responding laugh quickly dies in her throat, swallowed up by their next heated kiss.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Three weeks later, they’re sitting in a bar, waiting for their friends to show up when a shadow falls across their table.

 

Clarke looks up, her mouth falling open in surprise. “Roan!” she exclaims, a grin stretching across her face. “What are you doing here?”

 

The man arches a brow. “Same thing you are, I imagine.” His gaze flicks over to Bellamy, sitting across Clarke and looking vaguely confused. “And this must be—”

 

“Bellamy,” Clarke fills in, her fingers tightening reflexively around his hand as a sudden rush of pink blooms across her cheeks. “My boyfriend.”

 

“Ah,” Roan says, the barest hint of a smirk appearing on his lips as he reaches out to shake Bellamy’s hand. “I assume congratulations are in order.”

 

“Thanks,” Bellamy says bemusedly. He frowns, his gaze darting between Clarke and Roan. “Sorry, have we met before? I feel like I’ve seen you somewh—”

 

He breaks off when it dawns on him, brows shooting up into his hairline. “Wait. This is _Roan_. As in, _Tinder_ Roan!”

 

“Tinder Roan it is,” the man in question confirms, the smirk stretching ever so slightly wider. “Frankly, I’m surprised you actually recognised me. It was a terrible photo.”

 

“Hey, I take _great_ photos,” Clarke argues stubbornly, scrunching her nose at him.

 

“Agree to disagree,” Roan says with a small smile, fingers smoothing over the already perfectly straight collar of his black shirt. “Good to see that you two have worked things out.”

 

Clarke flushes at Bellamy’s questioning look. “Okay, so, during our date, Roan may or may not have completely called me out on texting you non-stop, like, every five minutes. Which, by the way, _rude_ ,” she adds, throwing a look at Roan.

 

He merely shrugs. “Only as rude as you reaching for your phone every five minutes on a date.”

 

“ _Anyway_ ,” Clarke continues resolutely, “he asked me who I’d been texting all night, and then one thing led to another, and it kind of just turned into a whole long conversation where he made me realise what a huge idiot I was.”

 

“Not one of my better strategies for romancing women,” Roan says, one corner of his mouth lifting in a half smile. “But at least I don’t go out on dates with other people when I’m _clearly_ already in love with someone else.”

 

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you’re so _together_.” She turns to Bellamy, jabbing a playful thumb in Roan’s direction. “God, I can’t believe I went out with _that_.”

 

“Well, at least it led to you finally ending up with _that_ ,” Roan says to Bellamy, his dry tone laced with an edge of mirth as he gestures towards Clarke.

 

Bellamy grins, squeezing Clarke’s hand affectionately. He’s still wary of Roan — the guy’s a serious combination of refined and rugged hot, okay — but at the same time, he’s also a little bit surprised to find himself warming up to the guy. “I guess I should thank you for that, then.”

 

Roan inclines his head. “I would accept, but there’s really no need. It’s hard to believe this wouldn’t have happened eventually, with or without my help.”

 

“ _Interference_ ,” Clarke corrects petulantly, blinking innocuously at Roan when he shoots her an amused look. She rolls her eyes again, shaking her head so her blonde waves fall haphazardly over her shoulder. “Fine. _Unsolicited aid_.”

 

“I can live with that,” Roan says gravely.

 

Suddenly, a whirling storm of dark hair and red leather appears at the table.

 

“ _Fuck_ me, I could use a drink,” Raven announces, dumping her bag onto the bag with a flourish. She blinks, turning to stare at Roan as if suddenly noticing his presence. She turns back to Bellamy and Clarke, one brow arched. “Who’s Giggles over here?”

 

“Raven,” Bellamy says, clamping down on his urge to snigger at the look on Roan’s face at being called ‘Giggles’. “This is Roan. He and Clarke went out a few weeks ago.”

 

Raven wrinkles her nose, a crease appearing between her brows. “Oh. You’re the dude with the Jag XJR, right?”

 

“I am,” Roan says slowly, looking her up and down.

 

She shakes her head. “Terrible car, man. Fucking abysmal, especially with the price you pay for those things.”

 

Roan’s sharp gaze zeroes in on her face. “Jaguar makes some of the absolutely best luxury cars on the market.”

 

Raven shrugs, tossing her long ponytail over her shoulder. “Yeah, sure,” she scoffs. “If you actually _want_ to be forking over ten thousand bucks to swap out that oxygen sensor every two years, that is. But sure, you’re entitled to your own _wrong_ opinion.” Turning on her heel, she casts a backward glance at Bellamy and Clarke as she starts towards the bar. “Holler when the other delinquents get here.”

 

Silence descends on the table, the murmurs of chirpy chatter filling up the temporary vacuum left behind in Raven’s wake.

 

Roan clears his throat, and leans over the table slightly, expression stoic.

 

“Your friend Raven,” he says, his rasp of a voice underlined with a definite note of interest. “She wouldn’t happen to be single, would she?”

 

“She is, actually,” Clarke says brightly, as Bellamy ducks down to hide his face, shoulders trembling in silent laughter.

 

Roan nods — a short, decisive dip of his head — and makes a smooth one-eighty turn, striding off towards the bar.

 

It takes less than two seconds for both of them to dissolve into peals of laughter.

 

“Raven is going to _punch_ him,” Bellamy snorts, and then pauses. “Or jump him. Honestly, I’m not sure.”

 

“Could go either way,” Clarke agrees, leaning forward to take his free hand with hers so that both of their hands are entwined together. “Either way, it’s gonna be interesting.”

 

Bellamy glances over, snickering gently as he watches Raven and Roan at the bar, an impatient scowl on her face and an almost imperceptible smirk on his.

 

His smile fades slightly. “This Roan guy — he’s good, right? I mean, he kind of seemed like a king-sized douche at first glance.”

 

Clarke laughs. “Same here. It’s probably just because we all refuse to believe that anyone’s _actually_ that composed and put together in real life. But no, yeah — he’s good.” She smiles, slipping one hand out of his to pass her thumb over the skin scrunched between his brows. “Plus, Raven’s more than capable of taking care of herself. So you can stop it with your worry face.”

 

“I don’t _have_ a worry face,” he grumbles automatically, catching her hand and bringing it to his mouth so he can press a quick kiss to her fingers.

 

She grins, flipping their hands over so she can pull his knuckles to her own lips.

 

“Whatever you say, Bellamy.”

 

 

 

Twenty minutes later, Raven returns to the table with a half-finished whiskey double and a date for Saturday night.

 

Clarke cackles mercilessly, Miller unsuccessfully attempts to fist bump a stone-faced but pink-flushed Raven, and Jasper and Monty clamber over each other trying to catch a glimpse of this mysterious Roan person.

 

“So,” Bellamy says, clearing his throat and leaning forward, completely casually, “is this a dinner date, or lunch? Where’s he taking you? He _is_ picking you up, right? Are you gonna—”

 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Raven huffs irritatedly, with a light shove to Clarke’s shoulder. “Can you _do_ something about this? Go back on Tinder so he can focus all his nagging powers on you again.”

 

“Sorry, Raven,” Clarke says with a grin as she leans into Bellamy’s side, his arm curling around her waist. “No can do.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> anyway Kacka is a genius and i love her <3
> 
>  
> 
> catch me [on tumblr](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com) for more discourse on Bellamy Blake as the Mom Friend


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